by Jon Land
His phone rang and Denton excused himself to take the call, walking far enough away to keep Beekman from overhearing any of the conversation. He listened briefly to the speaker’s words, ending the call with, “Keep me informed,” while nodding, before starting back toward Beekman.
“A day for loose ends, Professor,” Denton said, his phone pocketed again. “Time to tie them up once and for all, before they can strangle us.”
SEVENTEEN
Atlantic Rainforest, Brazil
“Too bad there are no witnesses to make our job easier.”
“Actually, Padre, that’s not entirely true.…”
But the skies had opened and the storm’s deluge began before Arocha could explain further and escort Father Jimenez to wherever these witnesses might be. He’d remained coy and evasive, elaborating no further while Jimenez resigned himself to spending the night in a tented base camp well back from the site, under guard by both Brazilian and now American soldiers.
His tent was sturdily erected, made of heavy waterproof canvas that kept the interior dry from the torrents slapping at its pitched roof that buckled but never gave under the onslaught of gale-force winds. The storm seemed to wash the heat from the air, drawing in a cold dankness behind it that chilled Jimenez to the bone. Left him shaking in clothes still moist and clammy from the sweat bred by the oppressive humidity earlier in the day.
But this was a different chill than he was accustomed to, a chill that seemed to spread outward from the hand that had sifted through the ash earlier in the day. Jimenez bundled up in his sleeping bag and slept fitfully, intermittently, his slumber disrupted by a combination of the rampaging winds testing the bonds of his tent and dark dreams bred by memories of a day long ago that still haunted him.
A cold knife against his throat, a dark figure poised over Jimenez, taunting him.
“Your God is not here.”
Words Jimenez would never forget. But he had managed to survive that day, as he would survive this night that seemed to grow colder each time he was awoken by the chattering of his own teeth. The shrill, howling wind pushed right through the canvas of his tent as if it were made of mesh. His work for the Vatican had taken him to the Andes once in the dead of winter. He’d never known such cold before, certain he never would again.
Until now.
He could never remember a time where he welcomed the sunrise more. But it was several more hours into the morning light before Colonel Arocha had come to collect him for their trip up the river.
“Interesting storm last night, Colonel.”
“Padre?”
“Such a sudden drop in temperature, all that wind. I thought my tent might be blown away like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz.”
The perplexed look on Arocha’s face made Jimenez think the analogy had escaped him, until the colonel spoke. “I don’t know what you are speaking of. There was no storm last night.”
* * *
They trucked to the shoreline where a Brazilian military launch was waiting for them, something growing very clear to the priest from the trip’s outset.
“The fish,” he started.
“You won’t see a single one, Padre,” Arocha nodded. “But if you check out the shore, you won’t see any washed up there either. Could be they got away.”
“Could be? Is there another alternative?”
Jimenez thought he saw trepidation, even fear, suddenly brimming in the colonel’s eyes, but then it was gone. “Whatever happened back there at the site, what you saw, tends to spawn much speculation.”
“With good reason.”
“I was thinking of past natural disasters where animals and birds had the foresight to flee the area in time. Maybe that was true of the fish here.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“I don’t know what to think, Padre. This isn’t a confessional. We need to stick to what we know.”
Which, Jimenez almost said, still amounted to practically nothing. He’d donned his scientist’s hat for the past twenty-four hours, examining areas of the Dead Zone he was allowed to access with an eye toward forming a logical sequence of cause and effect. Even the strangest and most inexplicable occurrences tended to have logical explanations, once properly analyzed. While Jimenez lacked both the equipment and a measure of the expertise required to perform such an analysis here, a scientist formed his initial hypothesis often from the barest data.
The past twenty-four hours, though, had only compounded his confusion. And he could only hope that the survivors who awaited him down river would be able to shed some light where he could see only darkness now.
Father Jimenez stood next to Colonel Arocha in the military launch’s stern, gazing intently at the water in the hope of spotting a fish, any fish. But there was nothing, not even any insects buzzing around a stagnant pool of water. The scene was placid and serene on the one hand, terrifying in what it suggested on the other. Even the currents had stilled, as if they too had fled the scene with the birds and fish.
“How much do you know about this particular Catholic mission, about where we’re going?” Arocha asked.
“The Vatican approved its formation to help indoctrinate one of the oldest living indigenous peoples in civilization today about the life and teachings of Christ,” Jimenez told him. “What with their way of life all but wiped out by encroachment onto their native lands.”
“You’re speaking of the conglomerates that see this region as a vast piggy bank. Those companies are the lifeblood of Brazil’s economy, Padre.”
“I’m an investigator, not an economist, Colonel.”
Arocha took a deep breath. “Then be warned that those in my government beholden to such economists are adverse to disruption.”
“You didn’t mention how many survivors there were,” Jimenez said, uncomfortable with the digression.
“Only one.”
“I’d like to hear more about him. What did he see? What has he said?”
“It’s a she, a young child, in fact, and I’m afraid the answers to your questions are a bit complicated. Better you see, and hear, for yourself. What I can tell you is no trace was found of her family, the rest of the tribe, or any of the missionaries. The mission itself was reduced to rubble, no trace of the remains of the missionaries and other natives found anywhere. Just this little girl.” Arocha looked as if he’d swallowed something bitter. “It makes no sense”
“What else should I know?”
“Like I said, it’s better that you see for yourself,” Arocha said, sounding unsure for the first time.
* * *
As chief investigator of the Vatican’s so-called Miracle Commission, Jimenez had found himself on a hundred scenes of purported miracles and inexplicable events. Though it was his duty to be objective, he’d managed to disprove each and every one to the satisfaction of the Curia.
Jimenez’s extensive training in science had made him question whether that discipline could coexist with faith, whether the two could even be made part of the same conversation. And, yet, as the years passed, and circumstances conspired to erode his own faith, he found himself wanting to find at least one true miracle, one act that science couldn’t explain under any circumstances. Well, maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten his wish. Only it wasn’t a miracle at all.
“We’re almost there,” Arocha said suddenly.
The colonel’s words snapped him out of some kind of trance. Jimenez checked his watch, ten minutes lost to his thoughts.
The launch glided up against a dock, and Arocha extended a hand down to Jimenez to help him, after climbing up himself. More soldiers were waiting to guide them the rest of the way on foot through the dense reaches of the jungle the men at the head of the procession cleared with machetes, working in tandem. But the thick leaf structure had browned. It felt dried-out and coarse to the touch, the individual leaves breaking when bent and leaving a grayish, powdery residue on Jimenez’s fingertips. Here too there were no bird or animal sounds, noth
ing to suggest anything other than death.
The walk ended at a checkpoint and camp that reminded Jimenez of a smaller version of the one set up just outside the Dead Zone. Soldiers from both the Brazilian and United States armies stood watch over a hastily erected perimeter, but the priest found himself studying the government officials gathered inside the security perimeter instead. They seemed to recognize Arocha on sight and showed immediate deference to him, altering Jimenez’s assessment of the weight the man may have carried. Clearly he was more important than he’d let on, and the priest even began to wonder if his rank and very uniform might cloak his true position and importance. Little more than a costume.
“We brought the survivor here,” Arocha explained, as men dressed in civilian garb gathering evidence and snapping off pictures of the area acknowledged his presence. “She’s been under guard ever since. Questioning has been kept to a minimum and only by those directly cleared by me.”
Jimenez spotted a pile of stray items that had been salvaged from the Dead Zone. There were wooden plates and utensils heaped amid chunks of wood and stone, gray with ash that looked burned into them. Jimenez noted the frayed bindings of books, missing all their pages, along with tattered clumps of cloth he took to be the remnants of clothes and thick round discs he assumed were wheels for a cart or wagon.
Near the top of the pile, the arms and face of a stuffed animal toy protruded.
“Would you mind, Colonel?” Jimenez asked as he approached.
“Not at all, Padre. We’ll be bagging all this up shortly for transport and further analysis.”
Jimenez plucked the stuffed animal from the pile. It was a bear that carried the same burnt odor he recalled from the Dead Zone, the ash coating that darkened its once white fur identical as well.
“Has this little girl been able to describe what she saw?” he wondered, tucking the toy under his arm.
“Not exactly,” Arocha said, stopping just before a folding table where two soldiers stood protectively over her.
She must have heard or sensed their approach and looked up, seeming to focus on Father Jimenez. He noticed her eyes looked like milky, opaque marbles wedged into her head.
The little girl was blind.
* * *
“When she does speak,” Jimenez heard Arocha say from alongside him, “her language is a local variant of Tupi. Are you familiar with that?”
“Somewhat.” Jimenez found himself studying the little girl, as if she were a lab experiment. “I may need an interpreter.”
Arocha nodded. “We have one on site. Come, let me introduce you.”
* * *
When they reached the table, Jimenez realized the little girl was speaking to herself in a muted tone, the words barely intelligible.
“Oré r-ub, ybak-y-pe t-ekó-ar, I moeté-pyr-amo nde r-era t’o-îkó. T’o-ur nde Reino! Tó-ñe-moñang nde r-emi-motara yby-pe.”
“Her name is Belinha,” Arocha offered. “I’ll fetch the translator, Padre.”
“No need yet. The language is much closer to Brazilian Portuguese. She’s reciting the Lord’s Prayer in Tupi.”
“Ybak-y-pe i ñe-moñanga îabé! Oré r-emi-’u, ‘ara-îabi’õ-nduara, e-î-me’eng kori orébe,” the blind girl continued.
Belinha stopped when Jimenez’s shadow fell over her. “Morubixaba,” she said, using the Tupi word for “chief,” focusing on him so intensely that Jimenez swore she could see.
“No,” he told her, adding, “Karaíba.” The word technically meant “prophet” but was also Tupi vernacular for priest or man of God. “I have something for you,” Jimenez continued, as well as he could in Tupi, and eased the stuffed animal into the girl’s grasp.
She held the toy at arm’s distance, her sightless eyes even glassier as she seemed to regard it. “Pûera,” the little girl followed.
Pûera was Tupi for “dead.”
Jimenez asked her what had happened, what she remembered.
“Pûera,” Belinha repeated, all of her attention back on the doll. And, as Jimenez watched, she plucked the stuffed animal’s tiny, marble-like eyes from its head and tossed them aside.
“What happened?” he posed in Tupi.
The little girl started flopping the toy’s stuffed, worn arms, stretching it at the seams. Jimenez thought he heard a ripping sound.
“What in God’s name did this, Belinha?” Father Jimenez asked this time, hoping the different phrasing might spur something in the little girl.
Belinha looked up, seeming to look at him—no, not so much at as through. He thought he heard her whisper something and leaned in closer so he might hear better.
“Your God is not here,” she said in English, a mischievous grin stretching across her face.
The breath froze in Jimenez’s throat, chilled not just by the blind girl’s words, but also her placid expression that suggested she somehow knew the importance of those words to him, the pain and memories they inspired.
From Nigeria years and years ago, before he’d entered the priesthood, and the source of the dream that had haunted his sleep the night before.
Your God is not here.
“Say that again, please,” Jimenez implored the little girl.
But the little girl was no longer listening, no longer paying attention.
“Please. Repeat what you just said.”
Her tiny fingers were squeezing the bear’s stuffed arms now, behaving as if he wasn’t even there. Jimenez wanted to reach out and shake her, make her repeat her words. Then he swallowed hard, certain in that moment the girl could see him. He watched one of the bear’s arms come free in her grasp. The other stuffed arm followed, leaving Belinha holding both of them, and what was left of the bear fell to the ground.
“My name is not Belinha,” she said, reverting back to her native language, “it’s Bituah.”
Something about that name sounded familiar to Jimenez, but he was too unsettled to give the matter further thought. He moved away, trying to settle himself, when Arocha drew even.
“What did she just say, Padre?”
“It was nothing,” Jimenez lied. “Just gibberish.”
Your God is not here.…
In that moment, a strange-looking helicopter like none Jimenez had ever seen before in all his travels settled over the modest clearing, seeming impervious to the whims of the wind. They’d taken the launch here because no pilot would ever dare chancing such dense and dangerous foliage, much less with the winds and weather having turned so unpredictable. But this chopper set down undeterred through a space barely wide enough to accommodate the reach of its rotor that seemed to spin in slow motion.
Jimenez watched as a well-built man with otherwise the most nondescript features he’d ever seen leap out before the pod had even settled on the ground. The man approached Arocha, his face aglow in the sunlight that had suddenly broken through, his skin boasting the sheen of flesh-colored porcelain.
Like a mask.
Arocha met the man halfway to the chopper, listened briefly, and then retraced his steps to Jimenez.
“He’d like to speak with you.”
Jimenez realized the stranger was staring straight at him, his entire face seeming to change at the whims of the trees and brush around him. The man approached in the shadow of a half dozen men wearing military tactical gear with thigh holsters fastened tight and carrying assault rifles, their eyes unnerving in their steely sureness.
“We need to go, Father Jimenez,” the man said, his voice so flat his lips didn’t even seem to move. “The United States government appreciates your cooperation.”
“How did you know my name?”
The man gestured for Jimenez to follow him. “I told the pilot to keep the engine warm. Come on, I’ve got a plane waiting.”
Jimenez dug his heels, literally, into the ground. “I don’t even know who you are, what you’re doing here; who sent you. My orders come from the Vatican.”
“I know, Father,” the man said, unclipping a sa
tellite phone from his belt and handing it to Jimenez.
The phone began to ring just as he took it in his grasp, and he answered it, pressed against his ear. “Yes?… Yes, Your Eminence,” he said, holding his eyes on the man standing before him. “I understand, Your Eminence. Whatever you say.”
Jimenez ended the call and, stupefied, handed the phone back over.
“Where are we going?” he asked the man.
“The aircraft carrier George H. W. Bush, currently on station in the Mediterranean. I’ll explain everything once we’re in the air.”
“In the name of all that’s holy, what’s this about?”
“Nigeria, Father, twenty-seven years ago,” the man told him. “That’s why you’re coming with me.”
EIGHTEEN
Syrian Desert, Iraq-Syria Border
“You can take off your blindfolds now.”
The five men kneeling before Mohammed al-Qadir removed the bundled, tightly wrapped keffiyehs that had been fastened in place through the duration of the trip here, sweeping their squinted eyes about and showing clear surprise at their surroundings. Even more surprise flashed when they regarded each other for the first time, unable to hide their shock over having been brought here in the company of lifelong enemies with whom they shared nothing in common.
“Yes,” al-Qadir told them, “you find yourself in the good graces of he who speaks in the voice of the one true God. You should not be surprised that, as the four most powerful tribal leaders in this entire region, and one of the senior remaining leaders of ISIS, He has deemed you worthy of an audience before his earthly vessel.”
Al-Qadir rotated his gaze among his five visitors, smug in his satisfaction of how his fighters had managed to penetrate their defenses and snatch them from their roosts in the middle of the night. These men who saw themselves as invincible reduced to cowering, desperate men.
“Two Sunni and two Shia,” al-Qadir continued, addressing the tribal leaders and ignoring the ISIS commander for now. “Unthinkable that you would actually put aside your centuries of hostility and hatred to join forces against a common enemy—at least that’s what the hated West would have us believe. Tell me, is it true? Is the infidel West right?”
