“The last time anyone went down there was years ago, but it was clear then. I don’t see why it should be any different now,” the abbot replied. “We haven’t had any earthquakes or anything like that.”
Gracie glanced doubtfully at Finch. Still, it was all they had.
“If we can make it across, can we get a car to drive us from there? Discreetly?” she asked.
The abbot thought about that for a moment, then looked around at the driver of the Previa and the others, smoking nervously as they listened to the radio. He stepped over to Yusuf and spoke to him in Arabic. Yusuf replied, then the abbot turned back to Gracie. “Yusuf’s brother-in-law also drives a car like his. If he can use your phone to call him, we can get him to meet you at Bishoi.”
“Okay, but then what? Where do we go?” Dalton asked. “The embassy?”
“It’ll be the same thing there,” Ameen put in. “Maybe even worse. It’s safer to fly him out of the country.”
Finch frowned, thinking ahead, stumbling over the logistics. “Easier said than done. Does Father Jerome even have a passport?”
“We have to sneak him out,” Gracie opined. “If anyone sees him, it’ll get complicated.”
“He can use my passport,” the abbot offered. “With his robe on and with his hood down, they won’t look too closely. And Ameen will be with you to deflect any questions.”
Gracie looked to Finch for approval. He thought about it quickly, then nodded. “Okay, it’s worth a shot. I’ll call D.C.,” he told her, “see how quickly they can get a plane over to us.” He turned to the monks. “How long do you think this tunnel is? Half a kilometer maybe?”
“I’m not sure,” the abbot said. “Maybe a bit more.”
Finch frowned. “We’re not going to be able to lug all our gear through.” He turned to Dalton. “Let’s bring it all down. We’ll grab as much as we can.”
The speech on the car radio flared up, the speaker’s voice rising fiercely. Gracie flashed on iconic, violent images from the region’s turbulent recent history, all of them fueled by religious fervor—the storming of the U.S. embassy in Tehran, the stoning and burning of the Danish embassy in Beirut, the beheadings in Iraq and Afghanistan. She didn’t want to become one of them, not in that sense, anyway.
“We’d better get moving.” She turned to the monk and the abbot. “You need to talk to Father Jerome.”
Ameen nodded. “I’ll go now,” he said, before leaving them and disappearing into the doorway, closely tailed by the abbot.
“THEY’RE TRYING TO GET HIM OUT,” Buscema informed Darby.
“Already? Who?”
“I just got a call from my guy at the network,” the journalist told the reverend. “They’ve still got that news crew there with him, and they’re not waiting for an official reaction. They’re handling him themselves.”
“Of course they are,” Darby chortled. “That inside track’s not exactly bad for their ratings, is it? How are they going to do it?”
“I’m not sure. They’re scrambling to get a plane out to them as soon as possible.”
“Where are they planning on taking him?” Darby asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t think they know. They just want him out of there before the whackos rip him to pieces.”
The reverend went silent. After a moment, he exhaled slowly, as if he’d reached a decision, and said, “Let’s bring him here.”
“Here?”
“Hell, yes. This is God’s country, isn’t it?” he boomed.
“It’s not gonna be easy. Everyone else will want him,” Buscema goaded him. “Did you see the rallies in Rome?”
“The pope hasn’t announced his position on this whole thing yet, has he?” An unusual, slight panic creeped into his words.
“No. The Vatican’s not exactly famous for its quick reactions.”
“So where else is he gonna go? France?” Darby scoffed.
“Spain, maybe. He’s from there originally. And the Brits are usually quick to put out the welcome mat for anyone in trouble.”
“No way. We’ve got to get him over here. Besides, like you said,” he added, “he’s polling through the roof. People here want to hear what he has to say.”
“The government hasn’t even made an official statement about him yet.”
“Just as well,” Darby said, gloating. “Gives me a chance to do it myself and save him from ending up with those heathens back east.”
“God’s sending us a message,” Darby asserted. “I’m going to make sure everyone hears it, loud and clear.”
Buscema went silent for a moment, then said, “If the State Department gives the embassy the green light— and they will—it’ll be over. If you want to make it happen, you’re gonna have to move fast.”
The reverend’s tone was as smooth and sharp as a blade. “Watch me.”
GRACIE, DALTON, AND FINCH had brought the rest of their gear down from the roof of the keep and were now sorting through it in the shade by the entrance to the library. The tunnel would be a long, dark trek through a narrow, dusty passage, and they hadn’t thought they’d be able to take everything with them. The camera and live broadcasting gear and as many of Father Jerome’s journals that they could carry made the cut. Dalton’s skycam rig was almost a casualty of the forced triage before the abbot drafted in a few monks who would accompany them through the passage and help them lug the rest of their gear.
Finch had spoken to Ogilvy, who went to work on rustling up a jet that could fly them out without asking too many questions. They’d still have to get past whatever security checks were in place at the airport, but Finch knew that those controls would be far less stringent for a private plane than they were for commercial flights. Still, they’d have to, pun notwithstanding, wing it at the airport. It didn’t give him too much cause for concern, though. They’d gotten out of trickier places before.
As Finch clicked his backpack shut, Dalton’s observations from earlier were still bouncing around his mind. Something was nagging at him. As Dalton had noted, everything had hinged on the preexistence of the documentary footage. Without it, he thought, none of this would have happened. They certainly wouldn’t have made the trip. Something else was bothering him too. The way the throng surrounding their car had recoiled and given them an opening to back up and return to the safety of the monastery. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was that bothered him—the moment had been a blur of frenzy. Still, something wasn’t right.
He thought again about putting in a call to the documentary’s producer to find out more about how it had all happened. He checked his watch and was about to say something when Dalton, looking around impatiently, said, “Where are these guys? We need to go.”
“I thought Ameen and the abbot went to get him,” Finch answered.
“I’ll see if I can find them,” Gracie offered.
She headed down the courtyard, toward the small building that housed the monks’ cells. Finch watched her go. He wiped the sweat off his brow and paced around for a beat, and decided to use the dead time to reach out to the documentary’s producer. He checked his watch again, made a quick mental calculation of the time difference between Egypt and England, where the producer was based, and found he wouldn’t be waking him up at some ungodly hour. He picked up the satphone, then patted his pockets, looking for his cell phone, only it wasn’t there.
“You seen my BlackBerry?”
Dalton glanced around. “No, why?”
