The Sixth Station(59)

“The Reverend Smythe testified that he had been visiting his NYC branch of the megachurches he founded, the Light of God Tabernacle on Staten Island, that day. He left not five minutes before the church was bombed. He rushed back to find the tabernacle in ruins and many parishioners who volunteer there badly wounded. Two people, a visiting pastor from Texas and a young woman, died in the explosions, and Reverend Smythe brought the chamber to tears describing how he ministered to the sick and particularly to the two who had died that fateful day.”

There’s something more than just being a media hound about that phony bastard.…

The rest of the report went on to describe the day’s proceedings and ben Yusef’s refusal to acknowledge the judge or even his attorneys.

“Newly released sermons that were apparently secretly recorded of Demiel ben Yusef lecturing to a small band of followers have recently surfaced on the Internet and are available and unedited at CNN dot com slash benyusef.”

There were additional links listed, and I turned on my tablet, which I had plugged in the night before.

Thank you, Hotel Arena, for supplying the free converter plugs.

I opened up a search engine with the intention of getting up the old bastard’s testimony, but instead I was riveted by the name of tomorrow’s witness. His name? Dr. Mikaeel Hussein.





19





I reached into my bag and switched on the phone to “contacts.” Nothing under the name Mikaeel Hussein. It wasn’t under “M,” “H,” or “Dr.” although—damn!—if under the “Dr.” section he didn’t list every famous TV medical expert you ever heard of including, I swear, Dr. Phil and Dr. Oz.

Why the guy had acted all wide-eyed and naive I couldn’t imagine. Or had he? Maybe since he was youngish and sweet-faced, I’d simply assumed he was naive and wide-eyed.

Idiot. The guy was priest to the stars or some crap like that, and you’re thinking he was impressed to meet a couple of reporters. He probably hung out at Gramercy Tavern and played poker with rappers. He’s probably got “Russo” under “N” for naive. Damn!

And what about this Jacobi guy? Could these two bizarre priests have known one another? I tried, “Father,” “Jacobi,” and even “Paulo”—nothing. Then I tried “P. J.” and got a number with 90+212+335+6941. What the hell? I tried it. A voice-mail message picked up and said in Italian, “Ciao. Non sono qui in questo momento, ma se lasci i tuoi dati ti richiamo.” I figured it meant the usual, “Hello. I’m not here right now, but I’ll call you back if you leave your blah, blah, blah.” No name.

The chances I’d gotten it right were slim and none, and I’d probably called Italy or maybe even Little Italy, but I took a shot. I spoke in English because the guy had been in the United States and seemed like a mover and shaker so chances were great that he spoke English better than I did. “Hello, Father Jacobi? I am a friend of Father Sadowski. Or was. I’d very much like to speak with you. Please return my call. I don’t have the number, but hopefully it will come up on your phone. If you have Father Sadowski’s cell phone number, you can call me back on that number.”

I decided that the best thing I could do for myself now was to get one of those famous Turkish steam baths to clear my head. The Things to See in Istanbul booklet in my room recommended the Cağaloğlu Hamam (bathhouse), built in 1741, because it was “the last hamam to be built after a long period during the Ottoman Empire.” It was also located within walking distance of the hotel, so I had the front desk call and book a bath for me, although when I arrived at the ancient building and walked inside, I realized that I may have been the first person since Sultan Mahmut to make a reservation.

It was bizarrely empty, and the stone walls and floors echoed with every footstep. It was also magnificent, although you’d never know it by walking in the front door. There was a little window where you picked what services you wanted and then were directed to an upstairs changing area.

I entered a tiny wooden common changing room with a door where I stripped, placed the thick towel around myself, locked my stuff in a foot locker with the key (yeah, good luck with that move), and walked out into the giant steam room with its gorgeous domed ceiling and marble slabs.

I was holding on to Sadowski’s phone like an eighty-year-old man holds on to his Viagra when he’s got a hot date. The steam was so dense it was like standing inside a hot geyser—albeit one with a vaulted ceiling, gorgeous stonework, tiled floors, and risers upon which I was supposed to—what?—lie down?