of partisan politics, beyond the arbitrary whims of market economies. It’s beginning to show in the rest of Europe, as well. Unfortunately, we English are always just a few steps behind on these sorts of things. People want something more stable, perhaps, if I may say, eternal.” He placed the spoon back in the bowl. “Faith has become rather attractive again, and the Americans seem to be leading the way. Difficult not to make them a focus.”
“Then your choice to leave the council,” she answered, “seems even more perplexing.”
“Not at all,” he said, adding a touch of cream. “The TC was always a bit too parochial. We fell into the same trap that snared the Christian Coalition in the States. We became a tool of the radical right. One can’t expect the voice of a fringe element to be the lodestone for mainstream Christians. Never really a chance for political change there. No, my choice to leave the council was not the least bit perplexing.”
“But you still believe there’s a large constituency out there eager for your kind of leadership.” She let the phrase sit for a moment before continuing. “That’s why you’re here.”
“Yes.”
“And you think I can help.”
“Yes.”
For several seconds, Dona Marcella peered at the face across from her. She then slowly speared another piece of fruit, brought the fork to her mouth, and stopped, the melon tantalizingly close to her lips. Again, she stared at her guest. “But I’m a Catholic, Colonel Harris.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then turned to his strawberries. “So they tell me.”
The contessa watched him as he ate-healthy mouthfuls, though never more than he could manage. A refined precision, tipping the bowl ever so slightly away from himself so as to spoon out the last of the cream. “Faith isn’t a tool for political gain, Colonel. Neither are the structures that guide it. As I understand it, they serve nothing other than themselves. I’m not sure we agree on that.”
For several seconds, he remained perfectly still. Then, very slowly, he slid the bowl to the side and placed his hands flat on the table. He seemed content to smooth out the cloth, eyes fixed on the receding waves of white linen as he formulated his response, no doubt a well-worn tactic. When he was ready, he looked up, an unexpected severity in his expression. “Complacency, Contessa, is what tore the church apart five hundred years ago. Nothing more. I imagine a thousand years of certainty will do that to a monolith. And what began as a much-needed period of reassessment became that tool against which you’ve just warned me. Matters of faith placed a distant second to political expedience; a debate about rituals and hierarchy became the seed of our own demise. With each step away from one another, we eroded the one thing that had permitted us to define the boundaries of an uncertain world-cohesion. And yet, remarkably, the Christian faith survived despite that upheaval. Or perhaps because of it. I’m really no scholar. More likely than not, though, it maintained itself because nothing much stood up to challenge it. We were the only game in town, as the Americans like to say.” His gaze seemed to intensify. “We don’t have that luxury anymore. There are far more dangerous threats to us now than our own self-recriminations.”
She had expected more of the politician, less of the pedagogue. Another point in his favor. Fully aware he was testing the waters, she pushed further. “Such as?”
“Growing pains.” Before she could ask, he explained. “Fifteen hundred years ago, more or less, Mr. Mohammed leapt from his rock. Fifteen hundred years after the birth of Jesus Christ, our Mr. Luther emerged to challenge the existing authority. Growing pains,” he repeated. “This time, however, those coming of age aren’t aiming their recriminations at themselves. This time, it’s a godless world they’re after, and our Luther has become an Islamic fundamentalist. The trouble is, this go-round, there’s nothing strong enough to rein them in. And they’ve much deadlier toys than we ever did.”
“So you’re proposing a Tenth Crusade, Colonel?” she said somewhat sardonically.
“Holy war cuts both ways, Contessa.”
For a moment, she wasn’t certain just how seriously he was taking himself. “And you really believe they pose that kind of threat?”
“It’s not what I believe that matters. The threat is simply a tool. We didn’t go into Iraq because Saddam was killing innocent Kurds. We went in because we needed to protect Kuwaiti oil. Not likely that NATO would have garnered much public support for the latter. Saddam was the threat. Saddam was enough. You want to bring a disjointed Christian voice together, give them something to rally around.”
“I see.” The politician had emerged.
“And the best guide, I’ve always thought, is the cinema.” He had expected her surprise. “Oh, yes. Twenty years ago, the villain came in the form of the onetime Nazi; ten years ago, he was the renegade Communist. Now, he’s the Arab gone mad. If that’s what the public is buying, why not sell it to them wholesale? Does it really matter how genuine the threat is?”
“So what separates us becomes far less important than what connects us?” When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Is that what you’re saying, Colonel?”
His expression softened. “I believe what I’m saying is that we would be foolish not to use everything at our disposal, given the situation. As long as we can strengthen our position, does it really matter how we manage it?”
Watching him, she still couldn’t be sure if what he said had come from the heart of a zealot or from the mind of a practiced politician. Whatever the answer, she realized Stefan had been right. Col. Nigel Harris would be useful in the months to come.
The question was, Who would be helping whom?
“And, of course, you’ve already started managing it.”
“Of course.”
She waited. “Well,” she said, bringing the napkin to her lips, then laying it on the table. “You’ve given me so much to think about.” She stood, then Harris. “Please, sit down. Finish your breakfast. If you need anything else, just ring for it. I have some things I need to finish up before we arrive. I believe we’ll have a car waiting for you in Barcelona.”
“Very kind.”
She nodded and stepped out from behind the table. At the door, she turned. “So nice to have met you.”
“The pleasure was all mine.”
Another nod; she stepped out into the corridor and immediately into the adjoining room.
Stefan Kleist was standing in front of a two-way mirror, watching the colonel, who was now buttering a piece of toast.
“Well?” she said, kicking off her heels and moving toward him.
“Hard to know how easily we’ll be able to control him.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“There’s always one way.”
“Jealous?” She pressed up against his back; even without her shoes, she was a good inch taller than Kleist. She reached around his waist and unzipped his fly. Both of them continued to gaze at Harris as she probed within, the familiar thickness soon in her hand, his arousal growing as she began to stroke him with her fingers. She turned Kleist toward her, all the while her eyes fixed on Harris, who had pulled a cell phone from his pocket and was now making a call.
“Can we monitor that?” she asked as Kleist pulled up her skirt, leaving only a garter belt, never any panties, for him to deal with.
“It’s taken care of,” he said as he leaned back against the glass and hoisted her onto his thighs. He reached for his belt, but she stopped him.
“The zipper will scrape,” he said.
“I know,” she answered, and pulled him inside of her.
His thick hands clutched at her thighs, driving her up and down, momentary twinges of air from him each time he got caught on the zipper. It only made her buck harder.
“Quiet,” she whispered, her eyes staring at the scar on Harris’s face, watching it move as he talked. She could imagine licking at it, running her tongue along its narrow groove. She came, an instant later the feel of Kleist releasing inside of her. He continued to shudder, always a final few waves before he began to breathe again.
She wondered if it would be that easy with Harris.
“‘Map’?” The word seemed to catch Pearse by surprise. “To where?”
