spaces, placing his bishop in danger. He would either have to move the bishop, allowing her to bring out her queen on the next move to go on the attack, or lose it.
“I want them all guessing when it will be their turn…Karp, most of all,” Kane said. “I want him to suffer…. I know you think that my plan has too many…um…shall we say, ‘nuances.’ But I want them distracted, looking the wrong way when we make our move…. You see, my dear Samira, there is much to be gained when things aren’t as they seem.” He moved his queen across the board and took her bishop’s pawn, exposing her king. “Checkmate.”
Azzam sat looking at the board, stunned. He’d defeated her in four moves. Backtracking, she saw that his intent had been clear the moment he moved his queen. Yet she’d been preoccupied with his bishop because it was closer to her side and had seemed the greater danger.
“Disappointing, Samira,” he said shaking his head. “You are still too easily distracted, too committed to your little wars of attrition…you take my bishop, I take your pawn, you take my knight, I kill your queen. That’s not chess…nor is it the way to win in the real world.”
Azzam sighed and rose from the table. “I’ll go see if there is a message yet from California?”
“Ah ah aah,” Kane chided as he turned back to the window. “Not so fast. You forget, there is always a price to pay for losing.”
She heard the sound of his zipper, and her shoulders sagged as she walked around the table and knelt in front of him. Sometimes it seemed the glorious day of her death would never arrive.
“Come on, come on,” Kane urged impatiently. “What’s taking so fucking long? I haven’t got all night.”
7
As Azzam sank to her knees, an old man walked inside a barn on a prison work farm outside of San Diego and carefully placed the rake he’d been using against one of the dairy cow stalls. He lingered momentarily in the shadows, inhaling deeply the fragrance of bovine excrement, fresh hay, and mechanic’s oil. Good, honest smells.
For just a moment, he allowed himself to fantasize that he was just a simple farmer, finishing up after a hard day’s work; dinner would be on the table soon, a wife removing a pie from the oven as children gathered noisily. But he didn’t allow himself to dwell there long. He felt it was a sin to try to escape the reality of the greater sins he’d committed, so he rarely let himself indulge in such simple pleasures.
The other inmates, and even most of the guards and administrators at the prison farm, knew him as Richard Ely, supposedly an old bank robber serving out a life sentence. He kept to himself. When he wasn’t in the garden tending to the rows of vegetables, he remained as much as he could in his cell, reading his Bible and praying for forgiveness, coming out only to eat, shower, and attend mass.
Even his cell was bare of anything that might be considered comforting, except perhaps the crucifix on the wall. There were no photographs of family and friends; no pictures of nude women or men (as preferred by some of his fellow inmates). When he did speak to the other inmates, he had a habit of calling them “my son,” but otherwise he was just a tired old man who apparently had no one else in the world and was just biding his time until he checked into the big house in the sky…or the hot one down below.
And yet, he was no bank robber, nor was his name Richard Ely. His true identity was much more shameful. He was Timothy Fey, the former archbishop of New York, who dreamed of the day he would die…hoped that it would be in his beloved garden, his head lying on the warm, good earth, his eyes turned to heaven and the promise of salvation. He wanted nothing except to meet God, whom he thought he had served all his life only to fail so miserably, and ask for forgiveness.
In moments of contemplation, lying at night on the cold cement floor of his cell, Fey sometimes still wondered how he’d ended up as he had. He’d not sought to commit any crime or hurt another human being. He had not plotted to steal, or rape, or murder. Yet he had been partly responsible for all those things.
As a onetime parish priest in Ireland, he’d sought all of his life to care for the sick, nurture the poor, and spread the word of eternal salvation…free for the asking. His rise to power had been in large part due to his reputation for honesty, piety, and dedication to God. His greatest sin, he had thought, was the sin of pride. He’d wanted to build a new cathedral-grander and more magnificent than even St. Patrick’s-to be located next to Ground Zero where the World Trade Center had stood. He wanted that to be his legacy to his flock and, he now admitted, to his own name. So he had not seen-or more honestly, had turned a blind eye-to other sins, bigger more horrible sins, being done in the name of the church through evil men at the bidding of the most evil of them all, Andrew Kane.
He’d trusted Kane, as both a friend and the church’s attorney- listened to the whispered lies. He convinced himself that what was being done was for the greater good of the church and its believers, and that he needn’t trouble himself with the uncomfortable details.
After Kane was caught, and the truth thrown in Fey’s face, he’d wanted only to live long enough to testify against his Judas. He wanted to do whatever he could to make sure the man was sent where he could do no more harm. But now Kane had escaped, and Fey only went through his days because to take his own life would simply compound his sins.
Fey turned at the sound of the barn door opening behind him. He squinted against the bright afternoon sun that flooded in. The dark silhouette of a man passed across the blinding light. It was difficult to make out his features, other than he was a big man. Then Fey saw the white collar.
“Ah, Father,” Fey said as the man stepped into the barn. “I did not recognize you.” He squinted more as the man moved just out of the light. He could see that the man had wavy dark hair and a pale complexion but little else to distinguish him. “Do I know you?”
“I am new,” the other man said. “They told me I could find you here, Your Excellency.”
Fey was startled at the reference to his old life. “You know who I am?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man said circling around until he was nearly behind Fey. “I was sent to…find you.”
So this is how it ends, Fey thought, feeling both fear and relief. “Tell me this, at least,” he said. “Are you an ordained priest?”
The man stopped. “I am,” he said. “In fact, I was ordained by you, Your Excellency…. But that was a long time ago, in another life.”
“Yes. I seem to recognize the voice. Would you do me the favor of hearing my final confession and then, when you are finished with what you need to do, perform the rites.”
“Even from a hollow priest? One who no longer believes in God?”
“If that is all I have-better a man who once knew Him than never.”
The man sighed. “Then sit, Your Excellency, and I will do as you ask, although I do not know what good I will be as an emissary between your soul and your god.”
“Our god,” Fey said gently. “And He will understand and forgive me, as He will understand and forgive you someday.”
Fey sat on a milking stool, facing the open door through which the light had softened and was turning to gold as the sun dipped toward the ocean. As he had since he’d been a boy on the violent, troubled streets of Belfast, he asked forgiveness of a priest “for I have sinned.”
When Fey was finished, he paused. “Are there no acts of contrition?”
The man behind was silent for a moment then said, “An Our Father and one Hail Mary. Is there anything else?”
“Only that I forgive you…. Our Father…”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” the man said softly. So softly that Fey wondered if his executioner was crying when the garrote dropped over his head and tightened about his throat.
The man was strong, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been a weakling. Fey made no attempt to struggle or escape. Dying, he thought, isn’t as painful as I imagined it might be. His lungs cried out for air and his head throbbed for want of blood to his brain, but they were overwhelmed by the feeling of release. He let himself slip away, overjoyed to discover it wasn’t into darkness but toward the light beyond the barn door.
When Fey’s killer was sure the old man was dead, he relaxed his grip and wiped at the tears that rolled
