“Okay, okay, you’re right. But no matter what your religion, you will admit that Jesus died for all of us. For all of our sins.”
“Maybe He died for yours,” I said, getting annoyed now. “But I wasn’t born thousands of years ago, so you can’t peg that on me. And maybe He died for His own sins. Ever think of that?”
Sadowski looked genuinely pained by my sarcasm. He stiffened and just said, “Let me ask you another hypothetical. What if this man, this ben Yusef, actually did turn out to be a new Jesus. Would you believe it then?”
I stared at him. “I think you need to seek professional help. You sound nuts.”
He smiled. “Okay, but remember, Jesus was a seditionist set up by the powers-that-be back then. The Jewish priests and their Roman rulers.”
“You can’t be serious. You’re buying into the conspiracy theorists’ nonsense? You?”
“No, but you have to wonder. Okay, back to reality. Your job and now your apartment. Are you sure they didn’t get anything?”
“Not sure. I ran outta there like my backside was on fire. I mean, it was terrifying. And the cops? Way too busy with a few million lunatics to investigate. I couldn’t even get to the precinct to make a report.
“The goons who broke in made a huge mess—trashed the place. It was like they wanted me to know that they’d been in there, whoever ‘they’ are.” Then I remembered the Wright-Lewis call and, switching gears, asked, “Can I use your phone? Mine is company-issue and I’m temporarily without visible means of communication.”
He answered by saying instead, “You really should find out if they got anything.…”
“I don’t really care right now.” The man was a real one-track-mind kind of guy, I thought, so I reached into my bag and pulled out my iPad. “All I care about is right here.”
He let out a breath and visibly relaxed. “Well, that’s a damned relief.”
“Right,” I said, trying to get him focused on my life crisis, of which the apartment break-in was only one part.
“And you’re still wearing that same scarf from yesterday, right? Nobody gave you a new one or anything, right?”
“What are you—the check-in guy at the airport?”
“It’s just that, I mean, as a reporter and all, you have to keep your stuff private. And maybe you can use that scarf someday for DNA evidence.”
I looked at him, puzzled. “It’s Father Hercule Poirot. Who knew?”
“Sorry, I guess I am playing private eye, but you never know about these things.”
“How about concerning yourself with this one instead: ben Yusef’s words to me were ‘Go forth for I am six.’ Do you know of any theological meaning to ‘I am six’?”
“Hmmm. As a priest, no. As a spiritualist, yes.”
I looked at him, cocked my head, and smirked. “Are you pulling one over on me?”
“No. I’m not so one-sided as my calm, handsome demeanor would indicate,” he joshed.
Then: “Well, six six six is the ‘number of the beast,’ or the Anti-christ, as you know. But the number six alone has a totally different meaning. Six is the number that is supposed to help a person unfold solutions to mysteries in a calm, rational way. It also means ‘enlightenment,’ or a light on the path to solving a spiritual dilemma. Like whether a lapsed Catholic should come back to Christ, perhaps?”
“‘Oy,’ as they say in Latin,” I joked back. “Forget I asked.”
He had another thought. “When you spoke of the Crusades—ever hear of the Albigensian Crusade against the Cathars?”
“Who?”
“A Gnostic Christian sect that flourished in the Middle Ages. Historians divide the Albigensian crusade into six phases—if that means anything…”
“Talk about obscure. No, I don’t think so,” I said, my sarcasm dripping, even though he certainly didn’t deserve it.
Damn! Stop it—he’s a nice guy.
I dropped my attitude, pulled out the note I’d made with Wright-Lewis’s prepaid phone number, and looked at it instead.
“You ever hear of an area code like this?” I asked him as I handed him the paper.
“No, where is it?”
“Don’t know. But if I got it right, it’s the number of a woman named Maureen Wright-Lewis.”
“The spy?” he asked, visibly astonished.
“Yes, and how do you know that, and why do you look so shocked?”
“Do I look shocked,” he said, not as a question. “I’m a history buff.”
Right.
I looked at him, more confused than certain of what this guy was all about, and punched in the number, sure I’d written it down incorrectly anyway.