The Sixth Station(25)
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but…” she said, gesturing to the crowd. “The precinct is just—”
“I know where the precinct is!”
“I’m sorry…” she said, and turned back to the crowd.
I spotted a man watching me. Short sandy-to-gray hair, fifties, well-cut suit. Not good. Was he the guy who’d trashed my place?
I pushed my way through the crowd more aggressively, heading for the Seventeenth Precinct on East Fifty-first Street, but the crowd was going in the opposite direction, heading right toward the UN, and it would have been like pushing back a wave.
The man was as far from me as he had been before—about ten feet. What the hell? No one looked like that except—what?—German garmentos or maybe the kind of slick assassins you see only in the movies. I had to get out of his line of vision. Chances were good he wasn’t following me so he could knock off line-for-line copies of my old leather jacket for the Düsseldorf runway shows.
Holding my press creds up, I let the crowd pull me onto Second, and pushed my way onto Forty-seventh Street. As I neared Mary’s Garden, I could see Father Eugene inside the gates, waving frantically at me. How did he know I was coming?
I could see the “German” reaching into his jacket. Je-sus!
Eugene reached his arms outside the gate and grabbed onto my jacket sleeve to pull me up to it. He opened the gate a hair—just enough for me to get leverage to squeeze inside, the gate locking behind us.
“My savior!” I exclaimed.
“Hardly! There are only two of them. I’m just a priest,” he laughed.
I wouldn’t think about that remark until later.
9
I shook myself off like a wet dog and tried to get my equilibrium back as we headed to the rectory living room. I collapsed into the fat couch, and Sadowski handed me a cup of coffee. “Light, one Sweet’N Low, right?”
“Too bad you’re a priest,” I cracked, feeling embarrassed that I’d let my jaded-reporter persona creep back in with someone who’d been so kind to me.
He laughed. “Good thing I never thought that.”
“Father—” I started to say, when he stopped me.
“Eugene.”
“Okay. So Eugene,” I blurted out, trying like hell to not cry, “my apartment was broken into.”
“What? When?”
“While I was off getting canned this morning,” I said, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.
He came around and put his arm around me.
“Well, that stinks,” he said, oddly unsurprised. I guessed he’d heard everything as a priest. “What did they get?”
“Just my identity,” I answered; a bad attempt at sardonic humor.
“Holy crap,” he said, slapping his forehead. “Your license, passport, credit cards?”
“No, no. I have them all with me,” I said, tapping my bag. “Even my passport. I stuck it in the bag yesterday in case I’d need extra ID at the UN. I meant my job. I kind of identify myself, you know, with the job.…”
“Yes. Of course. We all do. But you’re more than a job, Alessandra,” Sadowski said. “You, dear girl, are very special.”
“Was. Was very special…”
“Are you kidding? You, not your friend—you—were picked out of all the millions of people yesterday by ben Yusef himself.”
“Yeah, well tell that to my boss. My ex-boss, I mean. I was picked by a mass murderer as his—what?—girlfriend? My luck—it’s the first time a man ever picked me over Dona. That special pick cost me plenty.”
“Not as much as you’ll gain from it.”
“Huh? No disrespect, Father, but I don’t get you. The guy’s a damned terrorist killer and, just for starters? He particularly hates your religion. That doesn’t bother you? And don’t tell me ‘Turn the other cheek.’”
“No? Why not? Isn’t that what my religion is based upon?”
“May I remind you of the Crusades?”
“Yes. Terrible. Many fought back. Kept relics out of the hands of the infidels.…”
I continued as though I hadn’t heard him: “I certainly don’t want to tell you your business, but Jesus was an itinerate preacher whose death went unmarked at first. No? Do you honestly think somebody chopped that one cross to make souvenirs? I’m sure they crucified fifty more guys on it before it got used for firewood.”
Sadowski grinned. “O ye of little faith…”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that in two days.”
“Maybe third time’s the charm?”
“No,” I chided back, before the conversation turned serious again. “I don’t try to get you to play for my side, do I?”